When the Bough Broke
by Marguerite1
Summary: Laying Emily to rest.


WHEN THE BOUGH BROKE

Classification: Post-ep for "Emily"   
Summary: The long hours after the funeral. 

***   


I am powerless to help her. She cannot be touched now or she will break, so I   
stand at her side, looking like the Colossus of Rhodes and feeling utterly   
useless. She steps toward the altar and I follow. Oh, Scully, don't do it. 

She takes the bouquet from the lid of the coffin and prepares to lift the lid.   
I want to scream; I want to stop her. There's nothing there, Scully--you know   
that. You know what happens when the constructs die. I am powerless to help   
her. 

All I can do is turn away and give her some privacy. 

I stare into the sun-drenched image of the Madonna holding the baby Jesus in her   
arms. The colors had illuminated Scully's pale face as she sat in the chapel.   
That's why I had to leave. Forgive me, Scully. But I'm back now. 

There is a sudden intake of breath. I turn and see her holding the little   
cross. It, too, sparkles in the dappled jewel colors from the window. Scully's   
eyes slide shut in pain and defeat. Mine are open and I can feel the anger   
rising in me. If there's a divine plan in all of this, I cannot fathom it.   
What can it mean to take this gentle soul and torture it beyond endurance? Is   
she supposed to be learning something? Is this a punishment for some knot in   
her karmic string? If eternal justice is to be meted out today, it should be at   
my expense, not hers. 

Enough, I tell myself. I take a long stride and touch her elbow. She pulls   
away from me, still staring at the sackcloth and ashes that had been her little   
girl. My hand trembles as I reach for the lid and close it slowly. Her eyes   
turn to me at last. They are aquamarine today, deep as the sea and so lonely   
that my heart breaks for her. Surely she can hear the audible crack in my   
chest. "It's time," I tell her softly. 

She nods. She takes the arm I offer her and I lead her from the chapel. The   
borrowed suit hangs from her frail body. She came here to rest and visit her   
family, not to bury her last hope at having a family of her own. How unjust to   
ruin not only this Christmas but also the ones that will follow. 

I am worried about what waits for her at Bill's house. Baby Matthew was brought   
to the service today in what I thought was the ultimate gesture of   
insensitivity--and I should know. God, did he have to have red hair and a   
perfect little mouth? Scully fussed over him, of course, and the sight may well   
have driven the last nail into the coffin of my insanity. How could they? 

Scully won't go to the car. Instead, she inclines her head toward the little   
park next to the church. It's too cold for her to be outside, but today Scully   
will have whatever she wants. Her brisk stride is not hard for me to overtake,   
and she looks up at me in gratitude as I take off my overcoat and put it around   
her shoulders. Such a little gesture, Scully, when I'd gladly skin myself alive   
and wrap you in it to keep you warm. 

The tender little bouquet is still clutched in her hand. Scully walks up to a   
statue of the Virgin and places the flowers there, an offering to another   
childless mother. She takes out a sprig of baby's breath and puts it into her   
own hair, just behind her ear. It looks like snow against a sunset. With her   
thumbnail she snips off one of the carnations and turns to me. Her lips tremble   
a bit as she reaches for the lapel of my jacket and puts the carnation into the   
buttonhole. A single tear trickles down her cheek. I lean over her, still   
silent, and she gives me a wan smile when I blot the tear with my finger. Her   
eyes plead for my understanding. Once more she stands before the statue, her   
lips moving in a silent prayer. After she crosses herself she reaches blindly   
behind her. 

I am there. Of course I am there, and Scully knows, as she knows so many   
things. I take her hand and walk with her to the car. Her movements are those   
of a sleepwalker; I have to fasten the seat belt for her when I get in. We   
drive to Bill's house in silence. Scully's mute grief claws at me. 

The house is dark downstairs. I fumble for the light switch just as Mrs. Scully   
finds us. Her face is worried, and she glances from Scully's dead eyes up to my   
eyes, which are stinging with tears. I give Scully's hand to her mother, but   
Mrs. Scully puts it back in mine. "Help her, Fox," she whispers brokenly.   
Suddenly her arms are around us and she kisses my cheek, then the top of   
Scully's head, and she goes back to the new life upstairs. 

Scully does not want to go up those stairs. The path to new life is not hers to   
travel. I can feel her resistance as I try to lead her, so we wander instead   
into the living room and I put her on the sofa. I want to ask her if she needs   
anything, but nothing will come out of my mouth except a stifled sob. It brings   
her back to the world and her eyes soften; she pats the place at her side. I   
sit beside her. 

I'm afraid. 

From the second story we hear the crying of baby Matthew. Scully listens for a   
moment, then takes my hand and places it on her abdomen. It is as empty as   
Emily's coffin. Still clutching my fingers, she looks up at me and I see the   
anguish in her eyes at this ultimate desolation. I have only seen this look   
twice: once when she was rescued from Donnie Pfaster and again in the hospital   
when the priest came to give her the last rites. Both events were because of   
me. So is this one. 

My eyes and throat burn. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. "It's all my fault." 

She astonishes me by pulling up on her knees to bring her face level with mine,   
her smooth cheek brushing against me. "I forgive you, Mulder," she murmurs, her   
breath warm in my ear. 

It is enough for her to say that and she curls up in my arms with her head   
tucked under my chin. Somehow, miraculously, she falls asleep. But then, her   
very life is a miracle. I am glad to see her rest, but yet I selfishly want the   
opportunity to weep for her at last. My brave, valiant Scully. "Sweet dreams,"   
I tell her and her fingers squeeze mine in response. 

Hours later, I startle awake. Bill is standing between us and the embers of   
last night's fire. Scully has not stirred; I still keep her within the circle   
of my arms. Her brother's face is unreadable. I make a helpless gesture with   
my hand, but he stops me and points to my face. It's still wet with tears.   
Bill's finger moves to Scully, who wears a gentle smile in her untroubled sleep. 

For the first time, I see something in Bill's eyes other than cold contempt.   
There is a light of understanding there. His thin lips curl up into as much of   
a smile as I've ever seen on him and he pads to the linen closet, pulling out an   
afghan. He does not hand it to me, but instead tucks Scully and me within its   
warm folds. Tenderly he strokes his sister's hair, leaning over to kiss her   
temple. As he turns to leave he puts a hand on my shoulder. Comrades. He   
understands now. 

I kiss Scully's cool forehead before settling down once more to sleep. Her soft   
breathing is my lullaby, the only one she will ever sing. 

*** 

END 

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